


Pen on Paper

by For_That_Cotton_Candy



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 19:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8256922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/For_That_Cotton_Candy/pseuds/For_That_Cotton_Candy
Summary: Spike sat cross-legged on the wide ledge of the penthouse window, shirtless and barefoot, and facing out into the faintly blue tint of the filtered sunlight, journal laid out wide across his legs and writing. Always writing.





	

“Pen on Paper”  
Angel Season 5  
Spike/Angel  
No Spoilers  
Feedback Welcome

 

***

Angel watched for a long time, just watched, standing very still and listening to the frantic scratch of pen on paper.

Spike sat cross-legged on the wide ledge of the penthouse window, shirtless and barefoot, and facing out into the faintly blue tint of the filtered sunlight, journal laid out wide across his legs and writing. 

Always writing.

He carried that journal everywhere, sitting down whenever and wherever the urge struck him and writing, scribbling furiously as if he felt that if he didn’t get whatever it was he was thinking or feeling down on paper it would be lost forever.

Angel moved finally, coming up behind him silently and holding back a sigh of regret at the way Spike stiffened at his approach, as if he expected some type of blow, either physically or verbally. The manner of someone who had been kicked too many times and for too long.

He stopped behind him, shirt-front just barely brushing Spike’s back and let his eyes wander over him, skin so pale made even more so now by the sunlight streaming through the window, his hands now showing no trace of injury but Angel knew that there was still pain, saw it in the way Spike fought or held a bottle and in the jerky, erratic manner in which his hand now moved across the page.

Always writing.

“What is it?” Angel asked quietly. “What are you writing?”

Spike sighed and closed the journal with a snap, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the glass and stare unseeing out at the city. “Everything. Writin’ down everything.”

“Why?”

Spike closed his eyes. “Have to. Have to get it down or . . . or I’ll forget it or it feels like I’ll disappear, fade away again.”

Angel reached out tentatively and brushed the back of his hand gently across the side of Spike’s face, sighing and letting his hand fall away when Spike flinched and jerked away from him.

“Don’t _do_ that,” Spike said, voice low and rough.

“Why?” Angel whispered.

“Don’t like it. Don’t understand it, don’t know how to deal with it, don’t trust it. Fightin’ and fuckin’ I understand but not _that_ ,” he murmured, shuddering as Angel reached out again and slid his fingers softly across Spike’s shoulders. “Please, Angel, _don’t_ ,” he whispered desperately.

Angel moved to sit beside him, leaning across Spike’s lap, propping himself on one hand planted on the window ledge on the other side of Spike’s thighs, then resting his forehead against Spike’s, sliding one hand around his neck to hold him still when he tried to pull away.

“Been a long time since someone’s treated you with kindness,” he murmured.

“No,” Spike said, eyes still closed. “No, not really. Fred did. And Buffy.” Then he opened his eyes and stared at Angel intently. “But you, you _never_ did. Never, unless it was to end up hurtin’ me somehow.”

Angel winced. “Spike,” he whispered, his hand coming around now to grasp Spike’s chin. “I’m sorry. For everything, I’m sorry.”

Spike’s manner shifted abruptly and he brought both hands to either side of Angel’s face, one thumb brushing against his mouth. “Always are, aren’t you? Sorry? Angel, I . . .”

Angel waited, his eyes closing at the feel of Spike’s thumb against his lips.

“Angel, I didn’t realize . . . didn’t understand how _hard_ this would be. How hard it must have been, for you, all this time, and I get that, now. And you’re always sorry, always apologizin’, but to everybody but . . .”

“To everybody but you,” Angel finished for him, saddened by the resentment and loneliness and hurt in Spike’s voice.

“Yeah,” Spike whispered, his tone softening.

“Should’ve said something sooner,” Angel said. He sighed. “Too pissed, too jealous . . .”

“And _that_ I understand,” Spike murmured. “I am, too, you know. Sorry.”

Angel smiled slightly at the tone in Spike’s voice. “It’s hard to say.”

“Yeah,” Spike said softly, looking down at his lap.

Angel reached out, nudging Spike’s chin up so their eyes met. “But I mean it,” he said firmly.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

They were quiet for a long while, simply looking at one another.

“Can I touch you now?” Angel finally whispered, not waiting for permission, trailing his fingers down Spike’s throat and across his chest.

“Yeah,” Spike said, shivering. “Done talkin’ about my feelings for this century, Dr. Phil.”

Angel paused and looked at him intently. “Can you trust it? Trust me?”

Spike was quiet for a long moment, eyes searching Angel’s face. “I do. Trust you.”

Angel smiled and then gasped as Spike leaned in and started kissing him lightly along his jaw and up to his ear, shuddering as Spike sucked at his earlobe and then thrust his tongue in his ear. He groaned and turned into Spike’s mouth, kissing him, gently at first and then, as always, more urgently, his blood and body surging at the taste of him, the feel of him, his sighs and moans and demands for more, and soon they were in the bed and the world fell away and they lost themselves in one another.

***

Angel frowned as he felt Spike slip out of the bed, and he opened his eyes and rolled over onto his side, watching as Spike walked over to the window, grabbing journal and pen and then sliding back into bed, his back to Angel, propping his head up with one hand and opening the journal with the other.

“Need to write?” he asked softly.

“Got to write it all down, everything,” Spike whispered absently. “Don’t wanna lose it, don’t wanna forget . . .”

Angel moved closer to him, pressing himself against Spike’s back and wrapping one arm around his waist. “That’s ‘Angel,’” he said. “A-N-G-E-L.”

“That right? And here I been spellin’ it A-S-S-H-O-L-E,” Spike said, losing interest in the banter even as he said it, diving deep into the words and searching for the right ones and putting them in their proper place.

Angel grinned and put his mouth to the flesh between Spike’s shoulders, feeling the play of muscle as Spike wrote, and then he listened for a while before falling asleep to the sound of pen on paper.

***

End


End file.
